


Ambiguity and Precipice

by keraunoscopia



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Musing, Pre-Relationship, Really there's no plot, Reflection, Self-Reflection, almost gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 08:21:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13736925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keraunoscopia/pseuds/keraunoscopia
Summary: But here is different. Here in front of cycling laundry, listening to dated elevator music cut in and out on an old radio, and the uncanny hymn of their only company, things are inexplicably different.





	Ambiguity and Precipice

Some spaces are liminal spaces, Sonny thinks to himself as he walks down a Manhattan sidewalk in the dark, only the distant calls of the local drunkards and the thrum of vehicles on the street, darting by at speeds they could never get away with during daylight hours. 

Liminal spaces, like empty bus stops and train platforms, rooftops at sunrise, sitting at an airport gate ready to board. 

Sonny looks up, bag slung over his shoulder, eyes catching the neon glow of a twenty four hour sign, the laundromat after midnight. He thinks maybe it’s a liminal space too. His eyes scan the room as he enters, one elderly woman in the corner, rocking in her seat, humming an erratic tune that maybe sounds familiar but he can’t quite place it. 

His gaze rests on the washers, several tumbling with clothes and sudsy water, unaccounted for in the near empty room, but he finally lands on a figure in the opposite corner, backside of a man’s head, dark brown hair, newspaper unfolded in front of him, ankle resting on his knee with a casual ease. 

Sonny recognizes the man instantly. He would have even if he hadn't been expecting him. It's not that they planned this, there was no preconceived notion that they’d arrive at the same place, the same witching hour. Sonny’s not so presumptuous to assume the man wants to see him. 

It’s happenstance, or serendipity, or something else altogether that can’t be described by the confines of the English language. Maybe German, Sonny ponders for a moment, the language of obscure sorrows and esoteric emotions. He doesn’t know how they keep ending up here, at two am, underwear and undershirts caught up in the spin cycle, but it happens. Over, and over again.

“Hey,” Sonny mutters as he drops the bag of laundry down on blue plastic, the chair next to the man. 

The man looks up from his newspaper, green eyes catching Sonny’s, “you again,” his voice is neutral, expression impossible to read. Certainly not welcoming, if Sonny had been someone else he might have shied away, but he doesn’t, just starts pulling dirty clothes out of his laundry bag, piling it into the washing machine. 

Sonny digs a few quarters out of the pocket of his sweatpants, the only clothing still clean other than the suits he has to dry clean, and starts the washer. He doesn’t come here often, finding the time to dedicate two hours to a load of laundry is a daunting task for an overworked detective in an understaffed squad. He thinks for a moment that it makes these chance encounters even more significant. 

“You know, I still can’t believe you don’t just pay someone to do all of your laundry, Rafael,” Sonny remarks as he drops into one of the plastic chairs, leaving a space between them. 

Rafael snorts, still managing to make it sound dignified, and his gaze returns to the newspaper, “whatever preconceived notions you have about my life of luxury, Sonny, keep in mind that I’m a good little Cuban from el barrio who grew up stringing the wash on clothes lines out our window in the Bronx,” his Rs roll off his tongue in a decidingly teasing way, though a smirk never graces the corners of his lips. 

“Fair enough,” Sonny relents quickly. It’s a weird thing between them, something he doesn’t quite know how to qualify. Here in Gary’s 24 Hour Laundromat, he’s Sonny, and the man is Rafael. There had been no discussion to affirm, no communication. The first time they’d met there, Rafael’s name had slipped of Sonny’s lips like nectar and Rafael had responded in kind. 

The next day in the precinct they had crossed paths, and in the light of the morning, they’d exchanged a brief _counselor_ and _detective_.

But here is different. Here in front of cycling laundry, listening to dated elevator music cut in and out on an old radio, and the uncanny hymn of their only company, things are inexplicably different. 

Sonny runs a hand through his hair, wood and ash curls loose from their usual structure. 

“You still haven’t made a decision about being a lawyer, have you?” Phrased as a question, but more of a statement, Rafael starts folding up the newspaper. Sonny glances at the washing machines, still sloshing around, plenty of time left on the clock, and he turns to look at Rafael again. 

Really this person in front of him is nothing like the formidable prosecutor Sonny had grown accustomed to over the years. His hair is loose, ruffled, and he’s dressed in a sweater and slacks instead of his usual trim and tailored suit. Sonny’s not sure how to reconcile the two people he knows to be one person. This person talks to him without condescension, this person makes the hours pass like minutes, falling into easy camaraderie or friendship, or something else he’s not quite sure how to name.

“I feel like I haven’t really even had time to stop and think about it,” Sonny admits, sagging in the chair, knees parting. “We’ve been so short staffed since Mike, it’s felt more like perpetual falling than moving forward. I don’t know how I’m supposed to figure it out when I’ve barely got time to sleep.”

Rafael nods, and he shifts in his seat just a little to look at Sonny. The chairs are uncomfortable, no armrests, all linked together in a steel frame. Sonny scans the area, wondering how long he’s been here, but there’s no clean laundry yet, Rafael always folds it, still hot from the dryers. He’s not sure what to think of the feeling that spreads in the pit of his stomach, a hint of warmth knowing that he’ll have this version of Rafael for a while longer tonight. 

“I always imagined you as more of a ‘go with your gut’ type of person,” Rafael remarks with a hum and it pulls Sonny’s attention back in an instant. He’s not sure what to read into the implication. It could speak volumes, it could be an admission. Sonny would like to think it is, that maybe outside of this liminal space Rafael regards him, considers him, imagines him. But Sonny’s not sure that’s what it’s supposed to mean, so he lets the thought drift the way so many seem to do with Rafael. 

“A lot of people think that,” Sonny mutters softly, and he’s really not sure why people seem to draw such conclusions about him. Passionate, emotional, even childish. But he’s really not the type to make rash decisions, not since deciding to go to college. “I’m not sure why. I guess because I bounced around the boroughs, because I used to want to be a priest, because it looks like I’m always changing my mind. And I guess maybe people think I’m immature or something. At least that’s what my ex-girlfriend told me,” he shrugs his shoulders, not sure why he’s spilling his guts like this, but something about the laundromat makes it so easy to say the things he’s been mulling over for months. 

“You just seem like the type of person who knows what you want,” Rafael settles back into the chair. “You seem certain.” 

Sonny doesn’t know what to make of the comment. He doesn’t know what to think about any of this, really. Rafael is nothing but an enigma, and Sonny has never been good at solving puzzles. They take too much time, they’re frustrating as hell, and Sonny has patience, but there’s not much left after struggling at work, and dealing with his sisters, and everything else that’s going on in his life. 

But for some reason, Rafael is a puzzle that he wants to solve. And Sonny thinks maybe here, in the laundromat after midnight is the way in, the corner pieces to give him some sort of structure to fill in. 

“I wish I was,” Sonny finally admits. 

The washer in front of them kicks into the spin cycle, and Sonny’s eyes flit over to the machine. Time has a weird way of moving here, like its hurtling forward at warp speed and stopping all together at the same time. He feels like they’ve been there for only a moment. 

Rafael stands slowly, methodically, and Sonny’s eyes linger on him as he moves to the machine, pulling out soaked clothing to transfer it to a dryer. It’s a public place, something he’s seen before and yet the action seems vaguely intimate, shrouded in a domesticity that he’s not supposed to be privy to.

When Rafael settles back down on the hard blue plastic of the laundromat chair, they don’t return to the conversation. Rafael seems to know that Sonny doesn’t want to keep hashing out that internal debate, like salt rubbed into a wound that won’t heal. Instead a heavy silence hangs between them, tense, but not uncomfortable. Sonny thinks it feels like possibility, like there are a hundred paths between them waiting to be taken. 

“What about you, are you going to stay an assistant district attorney for the rest of your career?” Sonny tucks his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, slouching heavily in the chair. His back is aching from the rigid plastic that doesn’t hit the curve of his spine quite right, and his joints make that dreadful popping noise, all too loud against the backdrop of eerie elevator music. He realizes, at that moment, that the humming stopped some time ago, that the strange woman had slipped out unnoticed. Sonny wonders if Rafael noticed when she left, or if he’s just as caught up in this ethereal space between them.

“I wasn’t before, you know, I was in private practice first,” Rafael twists his hands in the newspaper, folded in his lap. Sonny doesn’t know what to make of the fact that Rafael had been reading it before, and had decided to set it aside for him. 

Sonny just nods. He did know, not that Rafael ever said. But he’d been curious before, had taken the time to find Rafael’s professional profile. And the suits, his lifestyle were a tell for any mediocre detective. “But there’s places to go up in the DA’s office, or just the public sector generally. Have you ever considered running for DA?”

Rafael pauses for a moment, and Sonny worries for a split second that he’s crossed a line, that he’s somehow shattered the fragile thing that makes these chance encounters something more, but Rafael tilts his head, green eyes dark with thought, “I can’t say the thought has never crossed my mind, but I don’t think I have the disposition. And as progressive as the city likes to think it is, I think I’d be hard to win an election against an incumbent democrat as a single gay man.” 

This is uncharted territory, Sonny thinks to himself, an admission more personal than anything they’ve talked about before, but Rafael says it so casually, so matter-of-factly Sonny wonders if maybe he was supposed to have known already. He suspected, of course, but brushed it off as wishful thinking, or projection, or something else. Again he’s struck by his own loss for words. It feels wrong to say anything, like no amount of letters could be put together to articulate the swell of emotion in his stomach. 

Instead he just settles on “I’d vote for you,” his voice is light, teasing, and Rafael could so easily take it as a joke, but there’s so much more there that he’s trying to convey. 

But tonight is not the night. Sonny’s not sure it will ever be. Instead he turns his attention back to the machines, and he stands, shifting his clothes from one to the other. They don’t say anything more, Sonny just savors the silence, that Rafael has allowed him into this space, as liminal as it might be. 

Rafael’s laundry finishes first, and he takes the time to fold each article into crisp lines, precisely measured, stacked with the gentle care that Sonny just isn’t capable of. Rafael just nods with a small smile as he turns to leave, clothes fresh and clean with the scent of laundry soap that Sonny recognizes just from standing in Rafael’s space before. A warmth blooms in the pit of his stomach, because that smile is saved for these moments. It never graces the court room, or the bullpen or the DA’s office. That smile is a smile he’s never seen directed at anyone else. 

When Sonny waves his wordless goodbye, he feels the heavy weight of that liminality again. He’s standing on the precipice, the rush of wind in his face. Next time might be something different. Next time might tip the scales one way or the other. For now, Sonny figures as he watches his clothes tumble over each other in the dryer, for now he’s okay living in the threshold.


End file.
